


je me lance vers la gloire

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, I didn't use warnings because none really applied, What else is new?, basically Roose being hella creepy, but anyway there are mentions of violence and some dub-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Red and blood and sharp edges are all nervously unfamiliar to her. Men’s territory, and more specifically her husband’s. The pink silk trappings of marriage came much more easily." </p><p>In which Walda tries to arm herself and can't decide exactly who she needs protection from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	je me lance vers la gloire

_I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire_

_don't touch me; I'm a real live wire_

* * *

Walda hides her knives like secrets, and wears the comfort of those secrets like armor, the same way she carries her title; makeshift protections against tumult. The twin daggers are completely identical, barring a delicate scratch near the hilt of one. Small, yet formidable, the perfect weapon to conceal. Their blades are razor-sharp, as long and slim as she is not, the pommels set with gleaming blood-red garnets.

Red and blood and sharp edges are all nervously unfamiliar to her. Men’s territory, and more specifically her husband’s. The pink silk trappings of marriage came much more easily. Various weddings have given her a host of enemies through no fault of her own, though, and she has her family’s innate drive for survival.

It’s not just her own instinct for self-preservation that drove her to take up arms; unease is growing inside her along with the child in her womb. Opposing armies pile up on their doorstep, erstwhile comrades fight among themselves, and her baby comes closer to taking its first breaths in a world where very few people want it. She may laugh and chatter, but she’s worried too, and for good reason.

And so she steals the knives. Not for true, since they’re Bolton armory knives, her husband’s knives. They’ve said the vows, and what’s his is hers. But, after desperate soldiers, readying for their snowy trek, have ransacked the armory for last-minutes pikes and staves, and the room stands empty, Walda comes in secret. She rifles through the finer items, some ornamented, all deadly, and settles on her new allies.

One, in its sheath, slips easily into the folds of cloth around her thick waist, cloaked by lace frills. The other hides beneath her pillow, waiting for a surprise attack she hopes never comes. One for day, and one for night.

Since her marriage, she’s always felt vulnerable at night, even before all these ugly things started happening. Clad only in her shift, with her hair loose over her shoulders and her bare feet padding over the floor, she’s awfully exposed. In the beginning, she’d been so nervous about sharing her bed with someone she barely knew.

Walda had been used to sleeping with her sisters in the big bed that took up most of their little bedchamber at the twins. When she was quite small, Ami’s scabby, pointy elbows would dig into her back, and Marissa’s cold little feet would rest uncomfortably against her own legs, chubby even back then. It was not the most comfortable arrangement, and yet felt just so exactly _right._ As she got older, Ami slept in the same bed as the others less and less, but Marissa’s feet were still cold, and that was familiar.

When she’d learned she was to marry Lord Bolton, before the shock had worn off, the oddest worry had drifted into her head. She’d thought about sharing his bed physically before she’d considered the more metaphorical sense of the phrase that her older sister would have had in mind, and she hadn’t immediately feared he’d be ungentle. But, she’d worried, _what if he snored?_ It was a stupid idea, she knew that almost instantly. But her father snored—they could hear him often through the walls of their chamber—and so did many of her uncles and older cousins and various assorted Frey relations, sleeping in the solar after feasts or hunts. Lord Bolton was older even than her father, but he didn’t snore, and she’d rather self-consciously thanked the gods for that, among other things.

It was still odd, though, lying next to him. What they did before they slept—well, she’d caught on relatively quickly to how that worked, and if it was painful at first, it was certainly pleasurable enough later. But afterwards…she didn’t know what to do with herself, and she suspected her husband wasn’t entirely certain either. Was she supposed to hold him afterwards? Or should he hold her? (He never volunteered). Or should they just… _be,_ side-by-side, neither acknowledging the other? She didn’t want that—so she’d found herself carefully inching across the gap between them, brushing her hand against his, laying her head on his chest. He hadn’t reacted at all at first, and she’d held her breath, waiting for him to push her off. (Some men never want to be held, they just want to be fucked, Ami had said with her typical giddy, knowledgeable glee.) But he’d reached up and patted her head, his hand held flat and somewhat stiff, and then shifted his weight slightly towards her. She’d smiled, and although he couldn’t see her in the dark, he might have felt her lips move against his bare skin.

They’ve slowly adjusted into a routine of affections, hers exuberant and forthcoming and occasionally clumsy, his usually restrained, usually available, and occasionally rather alarmingly passionate. At night, Walda still feels vulnerable, but that’s no longer because she’s nervous with her husband, but because of what might be waiting outside their doors.

At Winterfell, they don’t sleep in the lord’s chambers; their stones, however grand, are still blackened and pitted by fire. Instead, Roose had had them installed in the rooms that were Lady Catelyn’s. Sometimes, taking the bed of someone who died at the hands of her family seems to be tempting fate, but the room is warm from hot springs underneath, and the rest of the castle is frigid. Walda is much more practical than she is superstitious, so she’s mostly glad of the warmth. She’s still unused to the bitter cold and thick snow of the North; she can remember only summer, and the Riverlands never get this cold anyway. Even her husband, with the ice of generations in his blood, is pleased with their accommodations. Northmen, apparently, also get tired of needing a roaring fire and thick clothes to be even close to comfortable.

In these rooms, though, she’s perfectly content to be more lightly clad, tugging a thin nightshift down over her thighs after she has her bath. The delicate, lace-trimmed fabric glides easily over her flushed skin. The movement stirs up a faint smell of lavender, the perfume mixed in with her bathwater. Marriage to a high lord has brought her plenty of previously unimagined luxuries.

Before she opens their bedroom door, Walda neatly arranges her damp hair, draping a few strands down over one shoulder and onto the top of her breast, exposed above her neckline. She wants her husband to want her. When she opens the door, though, Roose barely even glances at her, busy scrutinizing the knife in his hands— _her_ knife.

Walda bites her lip, expecting a rebuke. She hadn’t told him about her secret, not because it was shameful or because she thought he’d be angry, but because she didn’t want him to laugh. She is just as certain of ever-present dangers as he is, even if he doesn’t discuss them with her. She’d rather be a scared girl with hidden claws then a silly little pet playing with men’s weapons.

When Roose speaks, though, he doesn’t sound amused. He doesn’t sound anything in particular, really, just quiet. She supposes she ought to be used to that by now.

“I didn’t hear of you taking anything from the armory.”

Walda swallows.

“I came in after all the soldiers were gone.”

Roose looks up at her, his face inscrutable, head tilted to one side.

“My own wife steals from my supplies and my men fail to notice. Impressive.”

He runs his thumb along the narrow flat of the blade, fingering the little steel battle scar, and then puts it down gently on the blanket.

“Why did you want it? You’re about the last person in this castle I would have expected to try and stab me in my sleep.”

Roose couples this wry statement with an extremely incongruous half-smile. Walda is almost sure he’s japing, but she can never entirely tell, and it makes her nervous. She decides to answer his question and not respond to the second half, stepping closer towards her husband.

“It’s for protection. I want to be safe; I want to be able to defend myself, if I’m ever in danger—“ _._ She closes her mouth firmly on the flow of words. She doesn’t want to reveal too much of her fear.

“When I put a pink cloak on you, I took you under my protection too. Remember?”

Walda smiles tremulously. Roose is not very good at being soothing, and while this is not exactly a romantic vow to keep her out of harm's way, it’s close enough.

“I remember. You’re very sweet to remind me. But…what if you go out to fight?” She crosses the room, scrambling up onto the side of the bed, next to him. “I want to be prepared. I want me and our baby to be safe, even if you’re away.”

Walda leans in, resting her head on his shoulder, hoping he’ll hold her and reassure her. Instead, Roose shifts away to look her in the face, a slight furrow appearing on his forehead.

“Do you even know how to use a knife?”

She blushes, indignant.

“Of course.”

“Show me how you hold this one.”

She leans across him, her body brushing over his lap, and, wrapping her fist around the handle, straightens back up.

“No, not pointing at me, point it away from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Walda looks down at the weapon, now carefully pointed at the wall, and realizes that she has no idea how to hold it as a warrior would, or how to go about stabbing someone in the first place.

 _You are a silly little girl, _she tells herself sternly, _and he’d be right to laugh at you._

“I guess it doesn’t matter how sharp your blades are if you can’t even hold them properly?”

To her surprise, he does laugh at that, but not at her foolishness.

“Stand up. I’m going to show you how to kill a man.”

Roose stands behind her, poking and prodding her into a reasonable approximation of a fighter’s stance.

“Move your feet apart. Here, try this.” His sturdy fingers curl around the plump curve of her upper arm, shifting it slightly. A minute change, and one that doesn’t look much different to her, but apparently necessary.

“That should serve. But your grip is all wrong.”

It takes a surprising amount of time for him to get her into position, although she suspects he’s touching her more than is technically required. Still, when he’s satisfied with her stance, Walda does feel slightly more formidable.

“We are not going to practice actually thrusting, because that’s not a toy.” He leans around her, tugging her fingers away from the hilt so that he holds it instead. Stepping away, he neatly tosses it back onto the bedspread.

Walda turns half around to watch him, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet in anticipation of the next step.

“I can still show you where to aim,” Roose says, moving back towards her. He’s standing even closer than before, with his arms wrapped loosely around her. Because he's so much taller than she, he has to stoop as well as tilt his head downwards, nuzzling the side of her head, his voice soft in her ear.

“A good, quick, quiet death is a knife between the ribs, right about here”—his hand cups under her breast, squeezing her side—“but that takes practice. You need to know where to strike, to find the lungs or the heart. If you’re surprised, you need to get your killing blow easily.”

He brings his other hand down, sliding it to rest on the roundest part of her stomach, where the lacy shift stretches tight across her navel.

“A knife in the belly, that’s rather messy and they scream a lot, but it works in the end.” He’s starting to sound a little breathless, his thumb dragging small, rhythmic circles, pressure pushing down through the fabric and into her skin. Walda squirms, discontented. Roose’s right hand moves down her body as well, from her chest to her upper leg, shoving up the hem of her shift. Her breath catches in her throat.

“Stop it, stop it, you’re scaring me!”

She grabs at his hands with her own, trying to nudge them away. Almost instinctively, he seizes her wrists, pinning her arms to her sides. His strong fingers press so tight for just a moment that she squeaks in pain. Then, he’s releasing her, stepping back, sitting down suddenly on the edge of the bed again. She staggers backwards, off-balance, trembling slightly.

“Why does talking about killing people make you want me?” The question comes blurting out, as she whirls reproachfully to face him.

Roose draws his knees up to his chest and averts his eyes, staring fixedly at the wall.

“I should control myself better,” he says, sullen as a castigated child.

Walda bunches up her fists, planting them firmly on her hips.

“I shouldn’t have to rely on your _self-control_. If you were just—“

To her horror and relief, her outrage is suddenly choked by tears.

What would she have said, anyway? Just normal? Different? Not himself?

Walda slumps to the floor, tears spilling onto her cheeks. She wraps her arms over her belly, hugging herself for comfort and protection. She hates it when people see her cry, and besides, it irritates Roose.

The dreadful night after the wedding, she’d cried because poor Arya was sobbing. He’d lain there, right next to her, turned pointedly away, his back stiff and straight. And he’d told her to be quiet, because he wanted to sleep. He was angry, she could tell, but because she was too loud and Arya was too loud and probably because his bloody son couldn’t _control himself_ either. Not because anyone was hurt.

Walda tries very hard to love her husband, and usually she succeeds. That night was the one time she had found her self-appointed task completely impossible. She’d muffled her tears in the pillow, so he could sleep, and hoped she’d still feel love for him in the morning, instead of a great, awful emptiness. 

Now, thank the gods, she does not feel that way. Angry, and upset, but not horribly hollow.

Walda wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Roose, surprisingly, doesn’t look angry, just mildly perplexed, as if he doesn’t understand why she’s upset. This manages to be both infuriating—how can he possibly be so dense?—and endearing; at least he’s not purposefully antagonizing her.

There’s a long, painful pause. She sniffles and hiccups, progressively slowing down. He blinks at her, bemused. When she finally gets a hold of herself, he clears his throat.

“Feeling better?”

Bizarrely, she finds herself laughing. It's a harsh, grating sound, very different from her usual giggle. The taste of that laugh in her mouth is unnatural, and she bites down on it, bringing the noise to an abrupt halt.

“My baby’s been kicking like a warhorse all day, right in my ribs, and just when he finally settles down, you start up pawing all over me, talking about stabbing me, which I’m already worried enough about, I don't need it from you. What is there to feel better about?”

She can immediately tell that she's gone too far; Roose's face shuts down, hardening immediately.

"I've been very patient with you, and I admit I was indiscreet earlier, but I will not allow you to speak to me like that."

She nods, giving in, as she's supposed to, as she always does. He gets the last word, and she makes the apology. It's just enough to sprout a resentful seed, gnawing away inside her. She tries not to fight with her husband, because it seems as if whenever they make peace, she loses a little ground.

"I'm sorry. You scared me and I forgot myself."

The acknowledgement that he's still in charge seems to mollify him, and he relaxes, almost imperceptibly. She sighs, resigned, and struggles to her feet. They've argued, and made an unspoken covenant to try and forget it. Suddenly, she realizes how very tired she is—both Roose and his child take a toll on her strength, in very different ways. She's ready to take to her bed, and no longer hopes to do anything in it but sleep.

As she unfurls her edge of the bedcovers, Roose rolls onto his side, looking up at her, his mouth half-open, as if he has something more to say. She's surprised: their argument ended in his favor, and usually when Roose gets his way, he doesn't contribute anything further but smug silence.

The baby has started kicking again, this time in gentle little flutters, almost as if reassuring her.  She climbs into bed, sitting with her back propped up against her overturned pillow, one hand resting on her stomach, and waits for whatever he's got.

"If it helps, I wasn't talking about stabbing you in particular."

Walda could have smiled, if she weren't still angry at him, and she almost does anyway.

"Yes, but can't you understand why I wouldn't want you to touch me while you talk about things like that? Even if you're not talking about me? Even if I know you'd never hurt me?"

Roose picks the dagger back up, idly spinning it around in his hand.

"I suppose."

He carefully picks his way up to the top of the bed, beside her, still holding the weapon. It fits easily in his hand, as naturally as if it were an extension of himself.

"I'll keep this for tonight."

He flips up his own pillow. Cushioned in the hollow underneath, there's another knife, slightly larger, the wooden hilt carved in the shape of a man, arms spread wide, mouth yawning open in a rictus of pain. Roose tucks hers next to his, the pretty and the awful, both equally deadly. He returns the pillow to its original position, hiding both of their open secrets, and lies down, stretching his legs out, the perfect picture of calm.

* * *

_we are vain and we are blind  
_

_I hate people when they're not polite_

**Author's Note:**

> title and bookend quotes from, rather appropriately, "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads. Many thanks to PrioritiesSorted for betareading and to her infamous "fantasizing-about-stabbing-people" reviewer for indirectly inspiring this mess.


End file.
